


Stepping Stones

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: It's been ten years since Inarizaki won Nationals. But eleven years since the team Kita Shinsuke led from the sidelines had lost.Should he really be at their reunion?





	Stepping Stones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nautilics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilics/gifts).



> One of Mandy's prompts from SASO - so blame her :D

From where he stood, Kita could see the glass. He could see the liquid – oh so pale gold shimmering from within. And if he narrowed his eyes (which he did) he fancied he could see the bubbles rising to the surface. Tiny, perfect spheres, iridescent sparkles, unbreakable until they reached the meniscus, their final act a burst of effervescence as they popped. 

Kita slid his gaze up as the holder of the glass raised the drink to his lips. Something thudded inside of him. Something which if he thought about it (and he did _not_ ) might have been his heart. Or maybe it was just that his lungs had squeezed out their last punch of oxygen.

_Not grey now._

But then why would someone retain the hair colour of high school ten years on, unless they’d failed to move, stuck permanently as a teen in the hope of reliving their golden time?

_And you wouldn’t have done that. Not you._

As if he were aware he was the subject of Kita’s scrutiny, his actions slowed, the drinker moueing his lips on the glass taking a long sip before shooting a heavy-lidded glance Kita’s way.

And looked past him.

_Ten years. Have I changed that much?_

Kita Shinsuke had retained his blond hair. Not as a nod to schooldays (although maybe there was an element of that in his choice) but because it suited him. Suited his image and the career he hoped to build. The colour discovered one dumb day at sixteen had altered from the badly bleached almost orange to white and now to the more pale honeyed hue he sported.

But still the drinker had not made eye contact.

_Or perhaps he’s well aware and I’m not important._

_Not welcome._

Atsumu’s idea ‘It’ll stand out more on court’ had proved correct, even if he hadn’t stood on court much in his final year.

On court. On TV. The colour change served him well, a fixture in the home on the small screen.

“Kita-saaaan. There y’are.” A drawl of a voice. The hick may have left Hicksville, but Miya Atsumu hadn’t modulated a single vowel. (In fact, he emphasized it, showing off his roots.) His hair colour might now have changed to pink, but, losing his drawl ‘ain’t gonna happen’.

Kita turned slowly. “Hardly think you need the suffix, ‘Tsumu,” he teased.

“Well, I guess as we saw each other only las’ month, you c’d be right.” Atsumu was smiling in his slow, lazy way, eyes half closed and cocking his head to the left. “You didn’t say you was comin’,” he accused, only _half_ gently.

“Wasn’t sure I was,” Kita admitted.

“S’good you’re here. Guys’ll be made up ‘bout it.”

Ten years from that winning team.

Ten years since victory sang its sweet rhapsody.

Eleven years, though, since Kita had slunk away humiliated by their underestimation of a team intent on reclaiming their black.

Kita’s eyes told the story, or rather his eyebrows when he raised them, yet before he’d had the chance to add a quizzical ‘Really?’ Atsumu had laughed softly.

“’Course they will. You’re the celeb. The local boy not just made good, but up in that stratosphere.”

“You ain’t exactly slacked off in that department.”

Atsumu grinned, showing exceptionally white, even teeth. “Don’t take long for you to revert to our hometown accent.” Then clapping Kita on the back, he continued, “C’mon, Shinsuke, how ‘bout you say hi to my – oh – ” His eyes drifted, flitting as he surveyed the room.  “Suna’s there. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Your final, I guess,” Kita replied.

 _Your final, not mine._ He’d been long gone, dropping by ‘cause it felt the right thing to do.

“He ain’t gonna bite ya, Kita-san,” Atsumu laughed. “Not unless you want him to.”

Suna Rintarou, ten years on, was still in academia. His sharp (some said thin) features, had softened and thickened a little as he’d aged. Though the cheekbones still looked as if they could cut quicker than his words. Kita swallowed down the vague shame of the out-of-place permeating in his throat, and strode forwards with Atsumu, a smile beaming to all and sundry, then focused in on his former Middle Blocker.

“Suna-kun, how’s the world of archaeology treating you?” he asked.

“Been diggin’ up more bones?” Atsumu said, just a beat behind.

“Not just bones,” Suna said, perhaps wearily, Kita couldn’t tell, but the smile he greeted Kita with looked genuine, even if it was small. “Kita-san, so pleased you’re here.”

_He seems to mean it._

“Least I could do. You guys were good enough to invite me and –”

He was speaking as the hush descended, a hush caused by the _tin-tin-tin_ as Atsumu tapped a spoon against a glass, and before he knew it, Suna had thrust a full glass of champagne into Kita’s hands.

“-I wanted to pay my dues,” he finished, but it was more to the bubbles in his glass than anyone around him.

“Guess, I’ll go first,” Atsumu said, and took a mock bow to the room. “No real need for introductions, but here’s one for y’all. To our Captain, leader of Inarizaki’s winning team, the boy I was pleased to serve under as Vice –”

There was a snort, very slight, from Suna, and Kita pressed his lips together, knowing Atsumu was glossing over a great deal.

“And that I’m proud to call my brother,” Atsumu said, glaring, “Miya Osamu.” He grinned and raised his glass. “Samu-chan, your turn to speak now.”

Osamu took a sip of his champagne, his eyes trawling the room, but in such a way, very few would be aware of his scrutiny. Even now, Kita wasn’t sure exactly what Osamu had taken in. It had never done to underestimate the other Miya brother, as Atsumu had always known and tried to tell people. As Kita had discovered eleven years before.

***

They’d underestimated their opponents. Atsumu had warned them about a certain Setter with the label ‘genius’ (now playing for Japan) but he was one player, and they were a squad of strength. So Trojan-like, they paid little heed to their Cassandra, and the team that was supposed to take on and beat the cream of Japan, had fallen at the first fence.

He’d refused to cry. He _couldn’t_ fucking cry. It _hadn’t_ happened. He _wasn’t_ leading his team to the sidelines to thank their stunned supporters for making the trip.

Atsumu’s ragged breaths, despite the five places between them, had not reached his ears.

And there’d been no fucking wadaiko drums and unruly whoops from behind a tatty black flag.

Thinking he was alone, Kita had slid into the baths, and finally allowed his facade to crack.

It was supposed to be their time. The team that had been gonna show the city boys how t’ play, had been unravelled by another country team.

Orange shirts exploding on court, the fiery trail leaving only scorched earth in its wake.

He slid under the water, wondering if he could stay there forever. His days of chivvying, of snapping out remarks for the cameras, of leading were gone.

His time. And now, the foxes had their tails between their legs, slinking back home, not so clever now boys, unable to outwit the crow this time, Reynard!

When he emerged, his lungs protesting, he spied a shadow at the door, bent over, slipping off his shoes and then a hesitation.

“Sorry. D’you want t’ be alone, Kita-san?”

“Yeah... no ... I ...” He blinked, and rubbed at his eyes, unsure just who was in the gloom, then massaged his ear to release the water blockage. “Miya-kun?”

“Uh ... yeah. I c’n go. Just –” It was Osamu, not Atsumu, his voice a quarter tone lower, and slower and softer.

He’d stood tall in the line-up, face as grey as his hair, but there’d been something kind of inevitable in his stance as if he’d known they were a team hung up on wrong things. Not that wanting to win was wrong. And the image had been carefully crafted to impose trepidation on their opponents, but Osamu had been one of the guys not immediately jumping to have his photo taken.

“Just what?”

“Kinda want to wash the day off of me,” Osamu muttered. “Figured I c’d scrub some o’ this city grime away.”

“Then stay,” Kita replied.

Osamu slipped into the water, sending ripples to lap against Kita’s chest, then he tilted his head roofwards, and let out the longest of sighs.

“Fuckin’ sucks, don’t it.”

“It fucking does.” Kita had wanted to say, but the words caught at the ‘f’ an ugly choke of a sob splitting the air between them. “I’m sorry,” he wept.

“Huh?”

“You tried to tell us.”

“Nah, that was ‘Tsumu,” Osamu replied. “He was tellin us all ‘bout Kageyama, but I guess we didn’t listen prop’ly.”

“I mean about winning. We were so hung up on conquering Tokyo, that we forgot about other teams. Eyes set on the final and takin’ down Itchiyama.”

“The team thought we’d make the final,” Osamu said, sounding reasonable, but there was an edge to his voice.

“But you once said.” Kita gulped. “You _often_ said we –”

“Had other teams to beat. An’ I kinda whispered it.” He sounded apologetic, ashamed because maybe he’d not set his sights high enough.  “‘M’all for havin’ goals, and big goals too, but steppin’ stones are important too.”

“And I let you down.” His voice cracked again and now he could feel the tears welling in his eyes, the dam about to break, but if he submerged again he could build up his fortress and no one need ever know.

‘Cept just then, Osamu inched closer. He stretched out his arm, and with his fingertips touched Kita’s arm. “You’re our Captain.”

“Not now it’s over.”

“Always be mine,” Osamu muttered. “An’ you never let us down, not even when you was yelping in pain.”

It was a small movement, that tilt to the side, and with his lips minutely parted, Kita touched them to Osamu’s hand still on his shoulder.

 “Stand for Captain next year, ‘Samu,” Kita whispered.

“Ain’t ‘Tsumu already got that in the bag.”

“Nothin’s decided. Put yourself forward. Lead the team on court and beat the hell out of –“ he sniffed and let out a bark of a laugh. “I was gonna say ‘those city boys’ but beat the country ones, too. Make sure those steppin’ stones don’t trip us up and send us swirlin’ into the water.”

Osamu’s thumb briefly flicked onto Kita’s chin, he stared down at him, then flipped back to the ceiling. “I’ll think ‘bout it,” he murmured. “Thank you, Kita-san.”

***

“Talking isn’t really my thing,” began Osamu.

“Says the salesman,” jeered Atsumu. “C’mon, bro, stop with the modesty.”

“Persuading is, though,” Osamu continued, not even bothering to glare at his brother. “We were a team of foxes, and used our cunning, our commitment and talent to take down everyone at Inter-High. Some of us,” he nodded to Atsumu, “continue to use that cunning in volleyball. Others have found a different path. But what brought us together, for that special moment, weren’t a one-off flash of a white tipped tail, but a steady set of leaps across stepping stones.” He raised his glass. “To Inarizaki.”

“Inarizaki,” the room intoned.

“To the players who took on Japan and won,” Osamu added.

They raised their glasses to sip.

“And to the former players, who taught us everything.” Osamu inhaled, then finally his eyes met Kita’s. “And to the Captain who gave me confidence to accept any challenge.”

 

***

“Tsumu didn’t think you’d come. He told me you was always busy these days,” Osamu said.

They were sitting outside, star gazing, Kita fascinated because thanks to the light pollution in Tokyo, he felt like he was seeing them anew.

“Woulda been churlish to refuse.”

“Was that the only reason you appeared? Didn’t want to seem churlish?” He spoke as if disappointed.

“I wanted to see you guys. You were a brilliant team, and deserve respect.” He coughed. “Nearly didn’t make it. Kinda felt as if it weren’t my place.”

Osamu shifted closer. “I meant what I said. You’ll always be my Captain.”

“Thank you. Not sure I deserve it. Kind of neglected this place for the past eleven years.”

“More to life than High School. I know that as well as you do,” Osamu replied, and smoothed down his tie.

“You like being a salesman then.”

“Found I was kinda good at it.” He shrugged. “Might not do it forever.”

“What else would you like to do?” Kita asked, aware now that this was small talk for Osamu was sipping his drink and his fingers were fiddling with his lapel.

“’Tsumu wants me to manage him,” Osamu said, and flicked a glance at Kita. “His last agent is some kinda crook who’s been skimmin’ off too much percentage off him and his other clients, and ... I guess he trusts me. Might do it, just so’s I can liven up my hair again.” He drained the glass, leant forward to place it on the grass, then stared ahead. “I’d be in Tokyo, Shinsuke.”

The words dropped between them, sending ripples shimmering towards Kita. He remembered the water, the touch of Osamu’s fingers on his shoulder, and the taste of the chlorine as he’d pressed his mouth to Osamu’s hand.

 _That_ time Osamu had moved away, considering his future before his present, but now ...

 _This_ time Kita could taste champagne and bubbles effervescing on Osamu's lips and both moved closer.


End file.
